Titanfist: The story of Sarenda Highweather
by Distaraza
Summary: Hunted by a demon, betrayed by those closest, thrown into new worlds; Sarenda Highweather battles simply for her life, ignorant of the legend that grows around her.
1. Chapter 1

_In the middle of everyday life, rarely do heroes realize that an epic story grows around them. Their adventures are muddied with their own humanity. But in truth, legends grow out of these everyday men and women in their fight of good and evil. It is in this very fight for the lives of her people that Sarenda Highweather travels from the broken Outlands of Draenor to the wilds of Kalimador seeking a cure for a new plague, one that twists her own body with undeath. Hunted by a demon, betrayed by those closest, thrown into new worlds; in the end she battles simply for her life, ignorant of the legend that grows around her._

_As always the worlds created by Blizzard belong to them alone; my story merely exists within theirs  
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The smell of burning skin and hair clung to her along with the sweat and blood that had long since dried. Moving among the healers and the severely wounded, no one noticed the stench. Primarily because it emanated from them as much as it did from her own body. Some smelled worse as punctured stomachs leaked the smell of bowels and imminent death. Nothing could be done for them save easing their minds as they passed into the Light. She caught one priest as the pinprick of a body fainted in exhaustion next to her. Cradling the healer as a babe, she lifted the featherweight body picking her way to the outer edges.

"Hark, Moonraven!" Her voice carried authority. It carried their spirits. Instantly those around her perked. It wouldn't last though, she didn't have the energy to keep the call.

One of the druids turned both at his name and at the call. Moving swiftly he reached his branches for the wilted human in her arms. "Not dead?"

"No, just exhausted." Sarenda placed the girl into his waiting embrace with reverence and care. "She did more than her share; make certain her people see to her." Feeling the whisper of power from the tree, the lifeless healer's body glowed momentarily and shifted to a more relaxed sleep. Sarenda made to move out of the glow.

"General. Wait please. You need this as well." Sarenda stopped the druid in mid-incantation.

"No, save your energy for the men. See to me when they are done." The command in her voice directed him, but she felt the whisper of energy circle her even as she turned to leave. "That's a direct order Moonraven."

"Indeed it is general, too bad you told me after I'd started."

Spinning on her boot heel to confront him in his disobedience, she narrowed her eyes at the retreating tree. _Damn_ d_ruids._ They always listened to her in battle, but 'with discretion' off the field. But even as others didn't like them, she did. They were versatile warriors and healers, at least if they studied their traditions well. Adjusting her shield and axe on her back, she made back to the trampled grounds, where her able bodied soldiers placed their fallen companions on the pyre, burning those they'd loved, fought with. How things changed. Now they fought for them.

Several paladins stood to the side in continuous prayer for those the spirits of the lost, showering the workers with as much encouragement and spirit as they could.

"Beatrees, report?" The red pigtailed paladin nodded to her, finishing her prayer before joining the general.

"Seventy-five and counting sir. "

Her sigh slipped. Better than the quelled sob hiding at the bottom of her throat. "Anticipated?" When no response came, Sarenda turned the full weight of her gaze from the flames to the dwarf. "Anticipated report Captain?"

"By the Light, sir. I—" an unexpected sob broke from the dwarven woman, "I— I don't know yet, but my initial estimates are well over 300, probably closer to 400."

The general's view swirled, the stench magnifying. _Gone. 400 gone._ But instead of speaking the truth of her heart, she laid a hand on the healer's shoulder. "From the full brigade our just our contention?" _Not that it makes it any better._

"Full brigade sir, but—," the dwarf's words caught on her lips, "—mostly ours."

Sarenda squeezed her friend's shoulder in understanding. Two women: in fact two warrior women, on the field of battle were not usually allowed countenance to mourn. Not usually. But today—"It's okay Beat, I miss him too." Her own tears surprising her face, matching her friend's, "Nystar will be remembered as the master, leader and friend that he was to each of us, to everyone. Pure of heart and faith."

"I loved him." The paladin, freed from the typical modicum, suffered her own sobs until Sarenda, not as the general, but as her friend, pulled the shorter woman into a tight embrace and crying with her, thankful to be free of judgment on a day such as this.

In the moments that passed, another paladin came to take Beatrees from her, and with a brief kiss to the forehead, the warrior human watched her dwarf, only-in-height-not-in-heart, friend be led away for much needed sleep.

"Sir!"

The cry seemed to follow her everywhere, but really, she knew any leader heard it at times such as this. Still didn't mean she liked it. The locks of a blond willowy hunter bounced with him as he bound through the chaos of the death fields. "Here Tingley."

"I know sir, I could find you anywhere." She hadn't decided if his arrogance was cute, warranted or if he needed to be punched.

"Private Tingley?"

"Sorry sir, they want a full war conference," he hesitated for the first time, "Um, you're ranking, now that both—" choking on his own words, he turned in embarrassment that only the young and inexperienced seemed to afford.

Resting her hand on his shoulder, "Be well hunter, it is a time to suffer our lost."

He sputtered in what appeared to be a sob, and she moved up beside him, just as she had moments before with Beatrees. But instead of just tears, she found an angry young man, spitting wordless rage at her.

"Be well? That's what you say? Makes you a coward, you know that? Mourning your friends. A weakness, a—"

"Tingley Scinton Monroe! By the hand that is holy, if you are dressing down our general right now, ye'll be assigned to the stable master for the next year." The reprimand carried on a bellowing voice, and Sarenda couldn't help but grin.

Damien Spitehawk demanded absolute obedience from his rangers. Even the Night Elves couldn't fault him. The boy stiffened, with eyes narrowed, his nod brief to his master before bounding across the field. If he'd had a white tail, Sarenda would have shot him for dinner. Following her gaze, the massive dwarf hunter's body shook with a chuckle that started at his toes.

"I know Sare, he looks like a deer, acts like a deer, but he damn well shoots like me. Gotta keep him around." The mammoth hand on her arm squeezed. "Come Lass, they need you now they do. The Exodar contingent and the Elves are in disagreement. Perhaps someone else you know is stirring the pot in there too. Imagine that." He turned moving with agility that belied his crusty exterior. And in seconds Sarenda found herself following him.

_He should be leader, not I._

"Oh stop that missy, trust me you have been escalated appropriately. I watched you the last two days, you were an unstoppable force. My pleasure to fight with you, and surely to serve with you." His slow intentional nod was to no one, and everyone.

Two days. It had only been two days. Casting her eyes back at the pyre that rose in Holy Light's white smoke.

All of them gone in two days.


	2. Chapter 2

"You are damn right we'll pursue them. We've won here, we will take the battle to them!" A pounding on the table underscored the words.

"With all due respect, our numbers seem to be a bit down," the sarcasm in the voice barely perceptible, "Perhaps you'd like to take your unit to the forward ranks?"

"You know damn well—" Damien's gravely throat-clearing grabbed the attention of the arguing parties as he lifted the tent flap to usher Sarenda inside. As a one, the group around the table stood, Sarenda could hardly face them. Far from her first time in a war tent, and certainly not with this group, she just didn't give a crap about their bickering.

"General Highweather, our condolences." The purple robes of the Kirin Tor mage dipped with her form. "With the sight of things to come, I welcome you to our ranks." Lysind Tok's formality reminded the others of their place, squelching their arguments for the moment. But only a moment. She knew them well, as leaders, as companions and some of them as legends.

"Ay lassie, we suffer alongside you even as we welcome you in," The powerful figure of Nolan Smithhammer stood only to her chest, he nodded to his left, "Both from Ironforge and Aerie Peak, ye mourn not alone." A flight clad Wildhammer general standing behind Smithhammer nodding in agreement.

The Exodar leaders stood; offering a low formal bow, "It is our world you fight for, it is our world you've lost in, may your companions find peace in the Holy light. Lieutenant Maidelin and I have approached the Anchorites for services should you wish them." Holding her breath for fear of more tears, Sarenda dipped her head in thanks to General Sain.

"May Elune's blessing be with you and your companions." Shaeyla Springshine stood taller than even the formidable elven warrior next to her, "As you know General Andoar and I have agreed to buttress your forward forces."

"Yes, thank you Shaeyla, Feinin." Sarenda meant every word of her thanks, for without the elves, she'd be nothing more than a scouting unit. "We'll expect more troops and cavalry once with the return of our messengers." Putting her fist to her heart, she offered them both a low bow.

"Highweather."

Standing straight, her eyes locked on the other human general. "General Weir." His eyes pinched in disgust with her choices she knew. More said in the distance of silence between the two of them, Sarenda dared not lower her gaze.

Breaking the battle of will between the two, when Mitziple Dimiand spoke, one couldn't help but listen. "Sarenda, I speak for all of Gnomegian, we suffer your loss with you." Sarenda broke her human staring contest, to smile and acknowledge the pink haired engineer.

"Thank you Mitzi, truly." The loose alliance around the table held together, just barely, but all felt the loss of the level-headed Nystar. Sarenda knew her loss was theirs as well.

The angry human general pointed at Damien, "You can go now." Never one to question an order, the dwarf turned to leave until Sarenda put her hand to his leather clad shoulder and stopped him.

Sarenda put her full warrior weight into her words, "He stays General Weir."

"He does not belong."

"With all due respect Tungsten, he is my second, he stays," turning to the Ironforge general, "with your permission, of course." She nodded at her peer. She couldn't know for certain, but Sarenda was sure a smile formed under the bushy grey beard of General Smithhammer.

"A dwarven second eh lass?" his black eyes pinned the hunter from his own ranks; sparkling with mischief seeing Damien unable to contain his own surprise, "Aye, no one better for this discussion, it'll be his folks doing the chasin' if we go." Nolan nodded at his own man, and again at Sarenda.

"Please join us Damien Spitehawk," Again, Lysind's formality and the only mage among them, brought them back to the business, and argument, at hand. Sarenda eyed the table in front of them strewn with maps between tankards and broken end crusts of bread. The barren Hellfire Penninsula mapped into the lush forest. Between the Fel Orcs and the Horde, they had their hands full, the remaining Burning Legion existing on the peripherals, not fully engaged. At least not yet.

"We must pursue them, in spite of our own casualties," The Exodar General spoke up, "We must. We have opportunity, we have Beinbrath on the run. He must be captured at the absolute least. And I would not lose sleep if he was relieved of his spirit in the process."

"Beinbrath isn't our objective here Oralin," Shaeyla reminded them, "Our purpose is much broader than one raiding enemy."

"Ha! Lassie, you call him one raiding enemy? We barely made it through this 'skirmish', and at much cost the last two days." Nolan looked between Oralin and Shaeyln, "No, you are both right and both wrong. No doubt that we must pursue Beinbrath, he will stir and unite larger groups; but we cannot ignore the Horde gathering to the northeast either." His massive thumb pointed out the corner of the peninsula which his scouts identified earlier in the week as growing in mass.

"I agree with Smithhammer, we bicker for naught. Split off a fast, light force to pursue and heckle Beinbrath if we must, but, we should move against the Horde." Tungsten said it so matter of fact, Sarenda wanted to punch him. This, however, was not a new feeling for her.

"The Horde is not our only enemy." The high voice of the gnome never mislead any of them, Mitzi's grasp of strategy was born of her engineering veins. "We have not spoken of the things we could not explain. We avoid the conversation because no one knows the answer, and no one wants to admit it." Sarenda felt the thump in her shoulder from her newly appointed second. In a less formal situation, she would have thumped Damien back. Instead, she let out a long deliberate sigh, he was right, and so was Mitzi. Sarenda just didn't want to talk about it.

"We found no casters among the dead that were capable of what we saw." She heard the exhaustion in her own voice, and steeled herself to match her peers. To sound respectful, semi-informed, "I know that those in the radius of the paladins were unaffected, but even a step beyond their protective auras—" she couldn't stop the shudder, "—even those a step beyond the Light were decimated." Her mind opened in memory, and she saw Gavin stripped of his flesh, melting before her eyes. Again. And again. Her stomach lurched. She'd never know the truth: if her axe ended his misery or if he died first of the magic. In her heart she suspected she wasn't fast enough with her throw.

"Decimated, that's all you'll give us?" Tungsten's hard voice taunting her, marking her unworthy for the council. "You sit her, as unclean as a man out of the stable, and you're unable to tell us more?" No one spoke for a moment, the challenge dangling in the air. Sarenda opened her mouth to speak, but her defender spoke to her surprise.

"With all due respect General Weir, I believe the smell is that of our dead, the crust is the blood of her brothers, and the weariness born of the fact that while we were taking care of ourselves and eating our fill, she walked among the wounded and the fallen. Have you, in fact, seen to your troops yet Human?" Feinin Andoar moved not a muscle, zero inflection in his soft dulcent voice, and yet the threat radiated off of him in waves.

Tungsten stared at the elf, disregard evident in his own wry smile.

"Lass? Have ye really not eaten yet?" Nolan stuck two fingers into his mouth to whistle, but she pushed his arm out of the way, desperate to stop his summons.

"No general, but if you'd seen what I'd seen you wouldn't have been able to stomach anything either. Let the troops eat, I'll drink my fill later."

"Can't stomach it huh?" Tungsten ignored the steady glare from the elf.

The rage built in her stomach, she could feel it threatening her mind and did her best to stomp it down even as the dwarves next to her shifted in unconscious response to the waves of anger. "Have you seen a man bleed out General Weir?"

"We all have and you know it." Drinking idly from his cup, he let the red wine stain his smile before he licked his lips.

"Have you seen it happen, Tungsten, after their skin was ripped from their body in sheets? Their screams echoing in your head as their lips and gums melt off their faces? Teeth scattering like a set of bone dice?" Sarenda spoke in a low whisper, near growl, her blood rage gaining foothold. "Have you seen them drop their weapons because the hand simply no longer existed, having liquefied? Bracers and gloves falling from the body in gelatinous goo and blood?"

With enough sense not to speak, Tungsten merely set down his cup, idle smirk not lessening his challenge.

His silence stirred her anger. She ripped her dagger out of its sheath, shaking it at him. "This is my only unbloodied weapon, man. The only one! By all that's holy if I could have fought what took our men, our leaders - my leader, I would have surely shed its blood." Standing as she did, the red glow around her forced its way on each person, screaming through the air, the fury flooded her. She gripped the blade and drew it across her palm, not a flinch on her face as blood pooled over the titanium, then disappeared into the enchanted blade, its own red light adding to hers.

The mage and gnome slid back, searching for the edge of her aura to escape its hungry pull. Her voice, angry, deepened with each pat of blood that missed the blade splattering to the ground. "And by my god, and by the Light, I will find the source of this evil, and I will skin him with his own magic, and feed it to my people, I will hang his head for all to see." Her words colored the air, her memories of her friend and their leader projecting images into the furied aura above them. Nystar's kind face and ruthless eyes looked down over them as if in judgment.

Sarenda's voice cracked with her words, "And by my own blood," she reached her bloodied hand out as if to touch the astral form, "I will avenge _all _the men that died here." She slapped her hand down to the edge of the map, leaving a bloody handprint, spinning the dagger in a whirl on the table top with her other. Great white light filled the room; her warrior's rage battling it until in one second, the whirlwind of color embraced the room and vanished.

Stillness shrouded the room.

No one moved.

No breath taken.

The dagger continuing its ethereal spin, its metallic whirl filling the emptiness. Sarenda's wide, unblinking eyes regarded them each with the full weight of judgment. When last her eyes fell on Nolan's stoic form carrying a singular raised eyebrow, she checked herself, shaking off the dissipating rage. "I am done here," her voice breaking on each word. "We will not move tonight nor tomorrow. If you do so, you do so without my men. We need two days perhaps three, to mourn, to heal and to plan. Our menders will need time, our warriors need time, and we have a responsibility to the people of this land, the Cenarians will work with us to lessen the damage." Tungsten and Oralin coughed into their hands at the mention of the druids, underscoring the larger dismissal of the faction. Sarenda pointed at both of them, "They deserve a place at this table. They are here to heal your land," pointing first at the Draenai then at the Human, "and they healed your ass today." She turned to go. "Again, I'm done here. Speak to me of no more plans until tomorrow evening." Reaching back for the still spinning dagger, it jerked to a halt, tip pointing to where Oralin and Tungsten sat. Taking it from the table, she slammed the deadly blade home in its sheath then escaped into the night air without a backward glance.


	3. Chapter 3

"Does she know what she's done?" Shaeyln spoke in hushed tones to Lysind as they left the rapidly dismissed council, each brushing off the residual feeling of magic that Sarenda left in the tent.

"No, I don't think she does."

"Is this youngster really that naïve?"

Sighing the mage picked at invisible lint on her robes, "Shaeyln, I'm not certain I understand exactly what happened this afternoon. She invoked power I have not ever seen, in a way I've never seen, for something I believe she bound herself to. But to what? None of us know." Shaking her head and looking down over the field of battle where tireless workers spared all available energy to see their dead prepared for their final journey.

"She was careless."

"How? In her desire for vengeance? Do you not feel the same pull for your fallen comrades?"

"She taunted the spirits of this world with the gods of her own."

"And do you really think that was her intention?"Scoffing at the hunter, "That was a woman who had given up everything to save her people, save this land, and no matter the win today, she did so with dire cost." Shuddering at the memory of Sarenda's description, her own voice faltered, "My people have much to do to discover the source of the magic that flayed the people before our eyes, within reach of her hands. I—I am thankful beyond the Light that I was not in the Pit to see it firsthand."

The Pit. Lysind hadn't understood the term when the ranks started to fall back; she felt the fear rolling off ahead of them as the warriors began to retreat, running full bore into the healing ranks. In fact, Lysind felt them before she saw them. But behind them, she heard this young general's voice ringing loud and clear, "For Lordaeron! For the Alliance!" The voice calmed the masses, broke the radiating fear; soon other warriors lifted their own calls to arms. For their people they fought, and as the front line regrouped, so did the remainder of the force. The paladins following this instantaneous new leader, each spreading through the ranks to lift the power of the Light before the forward line. Nothing stood before them after that. And while at enormous expense, the great evil hadn't been able to penetrate the Light.

In the end though, as she waded through to help the wounded, Lysind knew the truth of why this battle would always be referred to as the Blood Pit.

Shaelyn touched the mage's arm. "Friend, best not to dwell."

"I know, I know," she looked up into the hazy sky, "But I believe there is an answer here on this field. Those of us behind the line were untouched. The power came from an unknown enemy in some unknown way, and in fact, I don't believe Beinbrath was privy to it. It was not the fel power for the Orcs. And, I am sure, we were protected only by distance." Looking her friend in the eye, "Only. By. Distance."

The ever steady Elf nodded, "Then tomorrow we study the field, we study the corpses of the enemy. We engage the Cenarians to study the land. And by Elune's light, we solve this mystery." Then with one last thought as she turned from the mage, "And maybe, just maybe, we save the young warrior from a fate worse than death."


	4. Chapter 4

"Sera, drink this." A hand stuck itself in front of her face, her stomach growling at the delicious smell it carried in the potted mug. Forcing her knees to straighten, she stood away from the wounded warrior she'd been talking to, taking the cup into her hands gratefully.

"Thank you Moonraven, truly." Her stomach churned with her mind, her exhaustion almost consuming, the refreshing hot tea reviving her with its mere presence. Within a breath, she felt its medicinal affects, hoping it would stop the burning in her side sooner, rather than later.

"With all due respect General, I'm going to insist you go clean up and sleep." The elf took her arm, turning her away from her troops, grip tightening with her hesitation.

"But they suffer still. They need to know they matter. And –" with a somber eye to the a long line of cots, "— and many of them won't make it to the morning."

"I realize this all too well." Moonraven steered her clear of the troops, voice dropping a bit, "We've an infection that we're having trouble fighting. Some worse than others; a few are struggling to live, while many are struggling to die." He shook his head in uncharacteristic defeat. "Soon you will no longer be effective in lifting their spirits, and frankly that will be worse than simply being invisible." Her shoulders sagged with regret, but he ushered her on. "This is not a weakness. You have done as much, perhaps more, than many of the healers by being present. They too lost their leader, and knowing you are here, that you are committed, makes all the difference."

With a gentle shove in the middle of her back, he sent her toward her tent. The dismissal informal, he always seemed to be fathering her, even if he took her orders without question. Most of the time anyway.

"And don't forget to bathe." The words muttered more than spoken trailed behind, she felt her lips turn to a bit of a smile more than her perpetual frown.

Tagging one of the squires that always followed within knocking distance, she asked for buckets and a bath. Her new status warranted things she wouldn't have gotten otherwise: namely privacy. Eager as all the boys, he took off weaseling his way through the crowds ahead of her. Watching him dart away, the depth of her physical and emotional pain began to sink on._ What have I done?_ She shook her head, the memory of her fearless leader Nystar at the surface of every thought; certain he'd be embarrassed of her outburst in the war council.

_Be well young one, you have merely committed yourself to a goal._

"A goal? No, this is not a goal, this is vengeance."

_Call it what you will, you have purpose fueled by a fire of endearment. Do not be afraid._

"Ha! I am not afraid, I am stupid!" Her voice rang unintentionally louder, as onlookers perked up, curious.

_Not stupid young one, not stupid. You have much to offer. You will lead them well._

Aware of the attention she gained, Sarenda ignored the voice, the compliment that went with it, and almost gleefully found her tent a the top of the small rise beyond the bustle of the campaigners. The flags on the poles snapped in the course wind that blew across this desolate land. The new banners she hated. Didn't want them. They might belong to her now, but they were born under a different lion. _Forward General._ Touching one of the roaring blue lions embroidered in golden thread, she ducked under the flap. Her weapons trunk already sat in its place, along with her meager few other belongings. The rush of water into the giant copper basin and the air around the bath filled with tendrils of steam as the squire poured in cleaning salts. Willow bark for pain relief; silverleaf for topical healing and hibiscus to suit Sarenda's olfactory pickiness.

For this, and only this, she'd be grateful for the position.

"Let me help you sir." As squire came to her hands reaching for the buckles on her breast plate; she batted him away.

"No son, I've done this a hundred times, I'll do this myself. " His wide eyes at the dismissal and his clear indecision brought yet another smile to her face. "You do not fail me Phineas, I simply prefer to be alone. Now go along. I'll make sure Master Duglid knows you were doing your job." She pushed more than ushered the boy out, pulling the flap down behind him. The leather barrier somehow freeing her. She turned in a slow circle. _Nystar's tent._ Tears sprang to her eyes, and the pain in her chest engulfed her. She stood in her friend's tent only because he was gone. Gone.

She sat down hard on a stool, head hung over, trying to stifle her own sobs. _Too much, too much, too much._ The ache so painful, her body chilled, the smell of the blood and gore she carried hitting her stomach. Dropping the tea she still carried to the ground she yanked the chamber pot to her just as what little sat in her stomach came right back up. Retching as if her life depended on it, bitter drivel coated her throat, her mouth, her nose. _ Nystar. Gert. Simmon. _Friends and brothers in arms. Gone. Before her eyes. Liquefied. In pieces.

"Still can't take it?"

Jumping up with a turn at Tungsten's oily voice, she paused long enough to swipe an arm across her face to wipe the bile and saliva away. "You are not welcome in my tent. Not anymore."

"We must be united in all things."

"You call me out at the end of a major battle in which you stayed out of harm's way to call strategy, and in which I watched our fearless leader—melt. I will do what is right Tungsten. Always."

"I was doing my job as was assigned. Besides, tossing your stomach won't help you forget."

"No, but it will damn well make me feel better."

"I can help you Sarenda." He took a step toward her, but Sarenda held her ground, body relaxing ready for a fight in spite of the protest of her weak knees.

"Get. Out. Now." Her finger pointing at the opening behind him.

Tungsten opened his mouth, she watched indecision filter across his face, "So be it." He stepped back, "We must be allies, you and I. You will find a way to see the truth of what I see, what I know and what I say." With a stiff nod, he backed out of the tent, eyes on hers.

As soon as the tarp fell back into place behind him, she collapsed back onto the stool. Head bent, arms shaking. Her armor creaked with the tremors that wracked her from head to boot. Teeth chattering. A spatial kaleidoscope twisting her vision.

_Damn it. I'm in shock._ Trying to stand, she managed only to lean against the center pole; fingers slipping against the tight leather straps of her breastplate unable to even budge the buckles.

"May I help you?"

"Can't you people leave me the hell alone!" She screamed at the quiet voice even as she wrapped her arms around the pole to stay upright.

Feinin stood in his camp leathers, palms turned open. "If you wish. Although it looks as if you could use a hand?"

"Feinin." Her breath rushed out in recognition. Her body mostly obeyed as she tried to turn her back to him again, supported entirely by the hooking of her elbow around the post as her hands failed her. "Please go." His very presence unnerved her. She trusted him with her life. Trusted his council. Had learned from him. It still boggled her mind.

"General. Let me." His voice very near her neck, his hands moving to hers. "You should have let your squire stay." He unbuckled the back belts, "He ran immediately to Duglid, explaining that you had dismissed all assistance. It meant one of us had to come; it required we check on you." Loosening the second strap, "Please turn around."

_Damn squire,_ Sarenda closed her eyes, but by force of will couldn't turn her body. Her legs wouldn't move, the pain in her torso disabling, her hands devoid of feeling.

"I-I'm sorry Feinin, I seem to be immobile at the moment." Without words and his nearly rogue like grace, he moved in front of her. Even with her eyes closed, his shadow dwarfed the light of the tent.

"Sarenda, you are in shock, do you know this?" She nodded once, the shakes getting worse, an embarrassing tear escaping down her cheek. "Okay I'm going to lift your plate off. Lean against me." She didn't disagree, but didn't move, she stood idle letting him do what he needed until she felt the release of her armor, her skin erupting in chilled bumps. With the warmth of the chest piece off, the shivers took over. She felt his hands lean her back against the pole, his fingers working at her belt, "By Elune's light, are you wounded?" He poked at her side, where the belt met her pants. Pain flooded her head as she wilted to the ground in a heap.


	5. Chapter 5

With the speed only the elves possessed, Feinin scooped her up into the canvas slung cot, calling for the squire he knew waited only footsteps beyond. "Child! Get Moonraven the Healer, as fast as your feet will take you." The squire's head peaked through the leathers; taking in the bloody linen shirt of the general, then bolted from the tent with the speed of a fel horse.

It took mere minutes for the healer to return, running with the sprint of his cat, Moonraven transformed into tree as soon as his whiskers broke through the tent entrance. "What happened?" he asked even as he knelt next to the warrior woman.

"No idea, I came to speak to her and found her in shock. When I helped her with her armor, I found that not all of the blood staining her armor belonged to our friends, but rather to a well placed swipe beneath her belt." The night elf warrior moved to the opposite side, helping the healer cut off the bloody shirt. Sucking in his breath, Feinin turned his head. The jagged wound pulsed with coagulated blood, dirt and sweat rimming the edges. It smelled of decay, not quite yet death.

"Surely her stomach wasn't cut? Not that far and low on the hip?"

"What's going on?" Damien's brash deep voice pushed in, eyes on fire. "What have you done elf?"

Jerking to his feet, Feinin's long finger jabbed at the dwarf, "Me? What have I done? You half heighted –"

"ENOUGH!" Moonraven bellowed at the two. "This is a battle wound dwarf, Feinin found her. Now make yourself useful, station your cat outside the door and go fetch one of the priests." The dwarf and warrior stared at each other for one breath, nodding in understanding before the hunter whirled from the room. His voice low and demure as he whispered to his cat, before his feet disappeared in a swiftness that mystified all who judged him by his barrel-like build.

"How did she keep going?"

"It is mostly muscular, one tendon, I think her armor held her together so it started to heal. The infection, it grows here as it does in the others." The branch hands motioned at the water, "Please. A towel and a bucket to wash." Feinin grabbed them both, kneeling next to the healer to cleanse the damaged skin. Her chest moving with shallow breaths, painful moans reverberating from their unconscious patient's wheezy lungs with each touch of the cool cloth on the rancid wound. Moonraven answered the unspoken question, "I'm sorry, I can't do anything to relieve the pain yet, we have to clean it first, reopen it. "

"Why did you ask for the priest?"

"Because I am spent. We may use our resource mana efficiently, but I have not had a break. By the source of our Life, I would not do this half-heartedly." Branches disappearing as he resumed his elven form, "for any of us, for all of us, we need her whole."

Feinin started unbuckling her icetread boots, just as the priest Merilyn burst in. "Damien brought me. How bad?" The two healers conversed quickly, shoo-ing the two unuseful men from the tent. The woman's deft fingers working on the plate leggings as her whispered prayer settled over the general.

Feinin and Damien stood outside, their breath cold, fogging the air in front of them as the sun of Draenor set beyond the bluffs. Unspeaking they stood united in their concern for the general, ushering on any that wandered over to investigate the commotion. Only when Damien's great war cat rubbed up against the night elf warrior did the hunter finally let out one of his famous belly laughts to break the tension.

"Well now lad, that's a first," the eeriely white-tiger dropped and rolled over at Feinin's feet, giant paws kneading into his legs and almost pushing him over. "Better give her a belly rub before she takes a 'playful' bite out of you son." Unable to squelch his own smile, Feinin hunched down obliging the giant feline.

"Must be the Wintersabers, she can smell them on me." Using both hands he scratched up underneath her harness on to her neck. Her playful bats at his head knocking him over just as the dour faced priest walked out to find him grinning, sprawled to the ground with the giant cat pawing at his lap, trying to curl up.

"Gentlemen, a bit more concern please?" The priest disapproval hardened her voice, as she beckoned them in with a jerk of her head. The tent radiated heat now, even as a pile of blankets on the bed shook with the general's still trembling body. Merilyn's eyes softened for a passing moment as her finger tips brushed across the face of the general, "Can anyone explain to me how she got to this point? How on earth NO ONE NOTICED!" The indignation from the priest only further humbled them, none could meet her eyes, looking everywhere but at the holy mage. "And you, druid," the words spit with such venom Feinin actually thought the woman would throw herself at the other elf, "She physically handed you one of my healers today, who was in a state not even half as bad as this? And you did not treat her?" Moonraven shook his head. How could explain that he tried, only to be turned away?

His eyes landing again on Sarenda, Feinin changed the subject, "Still in shock?"

"Yes." The priest's voice only softened slightly, "Some of the healing she has to do herself." A puzzled look crossed her face, "The wound will not close. Not entirely anyway. It bleeds only a little, but I cannot close it."

"This is not your fault Meri." Moonraven spoke as he moved past her, sitting on the side of the bed. "This has been humming since we started the healing," he held up the dagger. Damien and Feinin took at step back. They had seen, they knew – it had a life its own. Moonraven did not touch the dagger, holding it between linens. "I tried to bring it out to you, but it flew back to the floor beside the bed. So I decided to leave it here and call for Lysind later."

"The lass is cold to the touch," Damien rubbed his big hands along the small feet of the general. "Are ye certain there's nothing more?"

Shaking his head, the druid brushed the brown hair out of her face. "At the moment, sleep is the most we can do. Keep her warm, and water if she wakens. I think it is both necessary because of her exhaustion, but perhaps also—hmm, just not certain."

Merilyn moved alongside the dwarf rubbing Sarenda's other foot. "I've enchanted the blankets to keep them warm, but she won't carry the temperature."

"Then I'll help," Feinin unbuckled his belt, setting his sword to the side. Fingers unlacing his shirt, pulling it over his head.

"By the Light!" The priest blushed and looked away, "What are you doing?"

"Miss Merilyn, I would do this in the field of battle for one of my warriors as well. Our body temperatures run higher than a human's, Elune's light favors us as well you know." He unlaced his leather britches, sliding them to the floor; left only in linen long pants. The Priest, in spite of her embarrassment, stood in his way of the bed.

"No. It isn't proper."

"Meri, stand aside, he's right. Two are warmer than one."

"But—but, he's a he… an elf!"

Ahh, Feinin understood, it was both purity and prejudice that influenced the woman. "Then someone send for Shaeyln." If his instinct was correct, Sarenda needed this.

"But she's an –" Merilyn stopped before the words came out of her mouth. Shame twisting her face into a grimace, but she stood by her beliefs. "There must be another way."

"Chien could lay with her?" Feinin suggested, the great war cat sticking her head in the flap at the sound of her name, nose sniffing the air."

"An animal? That's not any better—"

"—Than an elf? Listen here lassie," Damien shook his finger at the woman, "different doesn't mean wrong. And its either Feinin or Chein because whoever it is has to have a higher body temp than our dear general." His voice low, it shook with anger. Feeling it, his pet pushed the tent open and stood next to him, hair bristling on the neck with a low growl.

Ever the voice of reason, Moonraven spoke, "Meri, we must do what is best for Sare, for everyone. She needs it, and we need her." He laid a hand on her arm, "please?"

Lips pursed white in displeasure, in all out bitterness. Her face twisted in that indecision, until a sharp rattled breath from Sarenda needled her over the line, "Fine."

"Thank you."

Already moving Feinin slid under the covers on the far side of the bed.

"I shall stand watch," the priest announced.

"Oh for the love of your holy light, don't be daft woman. They need you in the healery, and you'd not stand a chance against a rogue." Damien waved away her pride. "Stop it, be reasonable. Chien and I will stand watch. Her honor will not be doubted, at least not by any that understand a warrior's code."

The insult subtle but intended. Meri narrowed her eyes and turned to lecture Feinin, "Fine, but there will be no oogling, no—" The night elf was already fast asleep having pulled Sarenda into his embrace.

Moonraven took the priest's arm, "Meri, they haven't slept for days. You must understand." Damien heard them talking as they walked away. He shook his head, scratching heavily behind his pet's ears. Disgust still curling his lip, but the rage leaking out of his heart.

"First time on a campaign, gets them every time", he stepped outside the tent, propping himself up against a pole. "Keep watch for a time Chien, I must sleep too." Curling around his owners flank, the warcat lowered her head to her paws, eyes wide, and alert for any intrusion.


	6. Chapter 6

_Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid_.

The voice echoed off the walls around her. No, they weren't walls, there was nothing. The voice just echoed. Sarenda remembered Feinin surprising her, remembered the loss of feeling in her hands, and then just as he touched her wounded side, something in her mind snapped.

"Hello?" Her own voice falling flat in the void. Surely she was in a dream state? Perhaps she was dead. She remembered well the slice of the polearm along her side; she just didn't remember it being so bad as to kill her.

"Missy is lost hey?" the voice came from behind her, Sarenda jumped and turned.

"Hello?"

"Yah, yah, missy is lost." Another voice joined. Then another, a low garbled chant growing.

_Do not be afraid, you are armed. _Looking down Sarenda indeed found her dagger belted at her hip. She wore little other than linen undergarments, not ideal for any battle. Chilly for certain. The cold crept in at her sides, pressing in.

"Missy, come let us play, come let us play." Two eyes blinked in the darkness, fire red, then blipped out. Sarenda crouched, hand still on the belt. She felt the presence behind her before she heard it, so she kicked out an elbow, whipping around. Connecting with something in a crunch, it disappeared before she could grab it, the audible yowl her only satisfaction.

"Stand still if you want to play. Come to me little one." Warrior to the end, she couldn't keep the taunt out of her voice. It drew them in like candy, their attention focused, less playful.

"Oh youngling if you only knew, if you only knew. Pawn you are, pawn you are." A rough broken laughter followed the words. _Imps_. The word tasted bitter on her lips. Usually annoying, sometimes dangerous, always evil, and never, ever, to be underestimated. She studied the dark around her as the buzzing stopped, then, as one hive, they opened their eyes to her. Not just a few, but many, in fact hundreds of eyes opened around her. Speaking in one automated voice, carrying the weight of death of ages,

"You will be our sacrifice. You of pure heart. Free of malice. Rote in judgment. Leader of many, you cannot save yourself." A humming grew out of the crowd of eyes, as one they tilted their heads back, opening their mouths. "Better sacrifice even than this one," And out of the air above her materialized fabric, dark in color and texture, moving like a flag, it floated down to nearly touch her. Moving as living art, it shaped things, trees, animals, people, until finally it settled on—

"Nystar." She gasped. Her friend's body hardened into life before her, the eye sockets empty, the mouth moving in continuous screams. She reached but he was just beyond her finger tips.

"Worthy he was as well, not quite enough. But you, YOU are the perfect sacrifice." The open mouths of the imps spit forth flame straight into the sky, creating their own jail, their own pyre. "I require your skin, little one. I require your heart." The voice pressed down, "I require your soul." Tendrils of black snaked along the floor wrapping up her legs. The pressure and pain instantaneous.

"I require you."

The fire reigned down.

* * *

When her body jerked in silent scream, mouth open, Feinin leapt awake, sword instantly in his hand standing on his feet by the side of the bed.

But nothing appeared in the room.

Nothing attacked his charge.

Her body rigid, her mouth open; Sarenda fought something. Something bigger than this tent, perhaps bigger than this campaign. He watched for a moment, but even his ancient years did nothing to help his discernment. He let out a low whistle, not wanting to move. Chein stuck her head in first, then the sleepy unfocused eyes of Damien. "Aye Lad, what is it?"

"Come. See." Shaking off his lethargy, the dwarf moved with purpose between the tent flaps, cat in tow. "This just started. " The warrior waved a hand over the general.

Seeing the body, the dwarf turned whispered in his cat's ear and Chien turned at full speed, leaving the tent. "Mage." He offered in explanation of the feline's abrupt departure. They watched as the body convulsed, uncovering her chest as the sweat poured in rivulets off her body, when the foam frothed at her lips, they sprung into motion.

Damien set about mopping her forehead with one hand, while the other held her shoulder down, keeping her in place so Feinin could press dampened rags to her cracking dry lips, prying them apart.

It took moments to notice, but what started as a nagging sound at the back of the dwarf's mind finally registered into a buzz, then escalating to a pulsating, drumming hum. The dagger spun with radiant thrumming light on the floor next to them. The night elf moved to his side, both staring down at the enchanted blade. Then deftly Feinin reached down plucking it up before the dwarf could stop him. Feinin took her rigid hand, forcing the hilt between her fingers. Brilliant light burst into the tent forcing them both a step back with arms across their eyes.

* * *

Thousands of shards of glass cut her body, she could feel her skin peeling back. Her lips bleeding as they cracked. The agony , her bladder fought to release, but she would not let it. _My body._ She declared in her mind. _MINE!_ Dream state or not, she would not give up so easily. Her right hand began to pulse, free of the torturous pain, the energy pushed through her veins, fighting the twisting fire that engulfed her. She didn't remember pulling the dagger from its hilt. But her hand moved, it flexed, it didn't burn. The dagger hummed with life.

_Do not be afraid, cut yourself free of this reality. Live Sarenda. LIVE!_

And then she knew, she focused on the light of the blade, letting it clear her eyes, willing it to travel up her body. The chanting around her intensified, one imp broke free, to take her weapon. Her bloodied lips curled in a snarl as his fingers started to curl toward her blade. _Mine_. When the dagger sunk home, brilliant light burst from the weapon, intensified the pulse of magic along her skin, seeming to sing in the blood of the screaming demon. Crying with the vengeance that coursed through her veins for more; crying with the need to be fed, she felt the draw of the knife to the blood.

"You will not win little one. Silly parlor tricks will not help you. You. Are. Mine!" The voice trembled with rage as the fire doubled its assault.

* * *

"And you say the arm returned to normal when you gave it to her?" Lysind hovered in trepidation over the general; studying the hand that rested at the side of her body, normal in temperature, only her white knuckles belied the intensity with which the unconscious woman gripped the dagger.

"Yes mage." Feinin hadn't moved. His own hand numb from holding the blade only a second. As if it had drained some of his own life force.

"She battles for her life." Moonraven spoke from the tent flap. Startled the others looked up, as Chien stuck her head in beneath the newcomer's legs, "The cat came for me, I'm assuming after the mage." Damien swelled with pride, tossing an always ready treat to his pet.

"The blade." Feinin said. "It is her only weapon?"

"I believe so." The druid searched his own mind for some tiny bit of lore or information that would help them. "She battles in a dream state. Much as a warlock or druid would do." His own weariness weighing his words.

They all knew the stories of enchanted blades. Light forbid some were ever found again. "Do we know where it came from?" The mage looked between each person as each shook their head no.

"It was powered by her blood earlier," the ever pragmatic warrior elf studied the woman who lay upon the bed. "Perhaps it requires blood to save her?"

"What are you recommending? That we stick her with her own knife to fuel it? Seems a bit circumspect if you ask me."Lysind couldn't keep the sarcasm from her voice, but as a mage, she seemed to carry it as a banner. "How about the next suggestion?"

* * *

They couldn't come all at once, it was as if each imp had to disengage as individuals from the pyre that torched her. And while she couldn't move a lot, the speed of her arm grew with each kill, but only for a span of seconds, she couldn't sustain it. Each breath and movement labored, life and will being torched out of her.

"You see," the voice seemed to circle her, clear over the roaring fire that tore into her being, "With you I can be perfect and whole. I can use all of those that I've called to my end, finally. Complete the circle." She swore it paced, stalking her, as if waiting for the perfect time to pounce. Like a cat playing with her prey.

"I. Am. My. Own." She spit out through clenched teeth, fighting off the scream that surfaced. Each moment brought closer the memory of her friends, their own skin torn off. Why their death was instant and her's slow and torturous she couldn't fathom. The voice just laughed at her, and then as if he leaned over her, it spoke slow and concise,

"Silly child. You are mine." With a brash attempt, she swung her arm up in no particular direction, connecting with nothing.

And yet with something.

Its scream echoed off the pyre and through her bones, her eyes burned and the bitter copper taste of blood filled her mouth.

But in a lesson learned early in her life she knew: if it could scream, it could die.


	7. Chapter 7

"By the light of Elune! Her eyes, they shed bloody tears!" Feinin knelt by her head, dabbing with soft touches at the rivulets of red that ran down her face. "Lysind, Moonraven, do something!"

"Her hair it smokes, Lad, pat that down with your rag," Damien pointed at her hair. "How could a dream manifest itself here? She feels like she's been standing next to the forge." His cat leaned against his legs, and then moved forward nosing the leg of the general. Chien's great head lifted, smelling the air, and then nosed along to her hip. Curling one lip to reveal a large fang, the cat snarled before head butting the hip. "Hey now Chien, you great beast, what do you want?" The cat head butted the leg again, so Moonraven lifted the blankets to look at her wound. As one the group fell back with a gasp.

"It's opened further, like her skin is being peeled off," even the pragmatic druid held in the revolt of his stomach, the previously clean wound, putrid and yellowing. Coagulated blood and puss pooled by her hip. Black threads of skin undulated along the tear of skin. The cat leaned in almost to touch it, and then jumped back, dropping into a crouch, hissing into the air, biting for something to attack. "Lysind, set wards, whatever it is we don't want it spreading out of this tent."

"The plague." Damien only whispered it. "By the Titans, it's the plague."

"No, it can't be, it's isolated to this wound only." The druid waved off the suggestion.

"Look here elf, its growing, its decaying and its happening rapidly. Tell me you don't see the similarities?"

"Certainly, but she hasn't died, so no Ghoul Sarenda if I can help it."

Feinin still crouched, watched the exchange, and kept looking between the cat and the wound. "She meant to clean it." So quiet no one heard him, no one listened perhaps, but he knew he was right. "Chien, did you mean to clean her wound?" The elf spoke directly to the cat.

The cat rolled her head to the side into her master's leg, and then looked back at Feinin letting out a low gruff. Damien knelt down next to her whispering in her ear. "She did warrior. Why?"

"Because that's what we need to do," Decision made, Feinin crawled to the bed. "When I'm done, stick the dagger in the wound."

"Feinin, stop right now," Lysind not liking his tone, nor his instruction, "you speak—" but the sight of him taking Sarenda's hand in his own, and then gripping the blade to slice his hand cut her off.

"By the gods lad!" Damien pushed forward just as Feinin went rigid, the dagger shining with light even as his blood danced across the polished metal. The Night Elf let out a gasp, folding to the floor. "Stupid stupid stupid." But not one to miss a beat, Damien clasped the human and elven hands gripping the dagger and shifted to the general's hip. "Here goes." The blade let out a scream as it sunk into the yellow puss, the acrid smell of burning flesh filling the tent.

She felt it. She screamed, the throat-destroying, gut wrenching scream of agony. The flames around her intensified and she saw a piece of skin raise off her left arm. A long stripe like a narrow blade. The chanting grew, the imp bodies peeling back on themselves, collapsing as a sacrifice to the fire. Burning flesh filled her senses for the second time in the same day. Too many times.

And then a new pain filled her. A searing pain, one that dug deep into her torso. Her mouth dry, tasted like medicated linen, her breath nonexistent except to unending scream. But within her scream another joined it, the fire fighting itself. The tenor of voices burning. Just as awareness started to slip, total silence filled her tomb. The fire evaporated, leaving a void only to be filled with her own scream. The voice, the imps gone. The burning in her side lessened but didn't go away. The skin on her arm bled the slow bleed of a surface wound. And then her lungs filled, choking off her terror, her mind attempting to focus her eyes, something hovered just out of reach, as her world fell into darkness. Entering, she was sure, the hells for her sins.

_Be strong. You must win. Be still, you are among friends. Do not be afraid. _

Damien fell back, thrown by the force of the dagger jerking itself out of the wound. The smell of sulfur and rosemary strong in the air. "Lad, ye've gotta let go!" He scrambled to his feet just as Chien charged the Night Elf still holding on to Sarenda's hand. With the force of the great furry battle head hammering into him, Feinin and Sarenda split apart.

And in that instant, Sarenda lungs filled in a gasp, her back arched, twisted. None of them moved, the cling of blood heavy in the room, until quite as suddenly she settled back into the bed, body relaxed. The dagger thunking to the ground from her hand. The light around it white and yellow tinged, swirling on itself, until it burst in one glorious moment. Then it fell dark, almost as if it slept.

Moonraven touched Feinin's face with a whisper of power, "That was quite possibly one of the dumbest things I've seen you do, and I've known you a long time." He helped the elf to his feet, and then ushered him back to the side of the bed he'd been occupying only half an hour before. "I believe she's back, but you need to rest. " He whispered a prayer over the both of them, and settled his brethren into the bed. Moments later, soft snores from the elven warrior assured them that he slept the peaceful sleep, not the eternal one.

Looking up at the mage, "So?"

"So—I don't know, I don't know anything. How he could have possibly figured that out is beyond me." She shook her head.

"It's easy missy, he listened to my Chien," Damien rubbed his hands through his great cat's hair, "I missed it, but he didn't. You do me proud you great beast."

"Right. Listen to the cat." The mage didn't manage to keep the disdain from her voice. _Really, why hadn't she thought of that?_ "Okay, hopefully this is done. Shaeyln and I will scour the field of battle for clues tomorrow. Hopefully our general will be able to share something useful when she wakes." Her toe reached for but didn't touch the dagger, "Hopefully. Because I have lots of questions." And in a twirl of purple she stalked from the tent.

Moonraven cleaned around the wound, quite pleased with lack of putrid infection in spite of the burns and blisters. The taste of death a bit too close to him. He too avoided the dagger, leaving it to rest still on the floor beside her. Mopping her face one last time with a cool towel, she let out a low sigh, turning into the cloth. When her arm came on top of the blankets, he took an involuntary step back. "By Cenarius!" A long strip of skin had been removed from bicep to wrist. Clean with only a few dots of blood as if it had been cauterized at the same time. Damien and Chien remained at a distance, the dwarf's fingers working his beard in thought, only his eyes betrayed his alarm.

"Perhaps it is the same evil we met in battle, perhaps we did not succeed in its destruction?"

Long grey fingers touched along the wound, "Of that hunter, I have no doubt."

"Recovery estimate?"

Snorting, the druid tucked her in to the still warmed blankets, "Always in motion Spitehawk? I'm not sure. We'll have to see if it happens again. She has fought and won two major battles in several days, I would say she'll need at least three days to recover."

"Well shifter, you'll only get one day at this rate, so see what you can do. We'll stay here for the remainder of the night just as we had planned. I'll call for you when they awake." As much dismissal as just general information, the dwarf and his pet moved from the tent. Their subtle sounds of shifting and settling into the dusty ground just reaching Moonraven's sensitive ears. Whispering one last prayer over the couple, he left them to find his own bed, wondering if he too could find sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

She was cold. This she knew with definitive certainty because tiny shivers traveled the length of her body. A quick mental inventory also meant she was probably alive. Still dark, she just couldn't find the energy to build up the fire. Sensing the pile of blankets she must have thrown from her in the middle of the night, she edged backward into her cot and the center of warmth that existed behind her. Memories sparked in her mind. The pile of blankets was large; Feinin had probably doubled them before he left. The thought of him taking care of her sent a different series of shivers down her spine. Sarenda hated that he did this to her. For her. Whatever.

Her left arm ached as a whole and her hip tightened in the ugly pull of injury. _Ugh_, she hoped that an hour sparring with someone today would work the soreness out. Flexing her arm in the dark, the tight pain that ran the length of it surprised her. Although considering the amount of damage she'd taken over the last two days, she'd have to inspect her shield carefully for any flaws. Realizing she hadn't taken care of her armor or weapons, she slapped her hand to her forehead muttering to herself.

"Is this some sort of wake-up ritual you have?" The baritone voice beside her only whispered, but he might as well have yelled. Sarenda jerked from the bed to her feet, and when her legs wouldn't hold her, to her knees backing away from the cot. Grabbing her dagger handily placed beside her bed, she did her best to cover herself, blade pointed at the bed. The blankets shook and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out the shape of a long ear and then two emerging from pile. The low chuckle emanated from Feinin, "Sorry dear one, didn't mean to surprise you." He leaned up, adjusting the covers, and Sarenda suspected the darkness also hid a growing smile.

"Feinin." Was all she could manage, the momentary burst of adrenaline wore off, the aches of her body catching up.

"Truly I didn't mean to surprise you, I figured I'd be gone before you woke," Wiping a hand down his face, "but surely even you need more than a few hours sleep?"

"I—I was cold."

"Of that I don't argue, since I seem to have acquired all of the blankets," his head disappearing under the wool, "You were in shock last night, and when we couldn't get you warm I stayed to help." Deciding her blade wasn't necessary, she set it back down. Thanking the Light again for the cover of darkness, she gingerly rose to her feet, testing the weight on each leg. What Feinin had done would be acceptable in any campaign, for any warrior, why did she hate so much that it was him?

"Thank you."

What else could she say? From memory she walked carefully to her small trunk, lifting the lid and searching for her camp linens. At least she could have some decency in the midst of this?

"Your hip, how does it feel?" He had rolled over and she could feel him tracking her movement. Could elves see in the dark?

"Tender and a bit weak I think." She turned her back and stripped as quickly as she could from her undergarments, putting on fresh ones and covering with a tunic and pants. That simple act refreshed her; but not enough for her to seek out food or a light. Her body waivered, she only wanted to sleep again.

"May I see please?" Damn it all, he could see in the dark. When she didn't move or respond, Feinin asked again, searching for the right words, "Please Sare? It was particularly…nasty."

_Oh for the love of the holy anchorites_. Sarenda moved to the bed side, lifting her tunic, Feinin's warm fingers gently rolled down the top of her pants. Sucking in her breath as he poked at the wound, he managed to find all of the most tender spots, and in spite of her pain, sounded pleased with it. "Healing quite nicely. Moonraven and Meri did their best I assure you." Her lip curled at the idea of two healers working on her, but the thought was lost by his breath so close to her hip. Sucking air in sharply, she stepped away, pulling back from his reluctant fingers. She had to crawl into bed with that?

"Do you need to stay now? I'm clearly on the mend." She turned away as she retied the pants.

"If you wish, although you're still running a fever. We need you to be well, but I do not wish for you to be uncomfortable General." The formal reminder took some of the awkwardness away. Intentional or not, she felt the spread of embarrassment up her cheeks..

"No that's fine, it is just different here in a tent as opposed to on the grounds among everyone else." _Too damn intimate_. Feinin slid back to the other side of the oversized cot, lifting the covers for her. With only a moment's hesitation, the ache in her bones urged her in. Keeping to her right side, the warmth of the bed sucked her in, sleep wouldn't be far behind. Just as she was getting comfortable his arm slid over her pulling her close.

"You were shivering still." The hand went to her forehead, then draped casually again across her body. Sarenda said nothing, glad to have the warmth. "May I ask you a question Sera?"

"Ask." _Sigh._

She felt the smile in her hair, "How is it you could kill anything before you, but my mere presence gives you a full body blush?"

_Damn elf. _"I am a private person Feinin." He poked buttons too close to the truth.

"Perhaps that answers half the question. But if that is all you share, I respect that." He settled in on the pillow, breath slowing. Sarenda tossed it around in her mind, how truly to answer. Two full minutes later, on the brink of sleep, she answered him as fairly as she could.

"I am a daughter of Lordaeron. I fight for my people, my land, our freedom. I fight for those that can't." Her voice catching just slightly on the last, "and I am part of a whole; not an individual. I suffer no man in the place of my people." Feinin remained quiet, body stilling while she spoke. "And should it be required of me, I would slay you on the field of battle without a blink of an eye. Be it traitor, possessed or to honor you with the final blow."

His words were quiet at the nape of her neck, "If it were required, you would kill me?"

"Yes."

"No second thoughts?"

"None."

"Young one, in a duel I would take your challenge and best you." Stiffening at the arrogance, she went to turn over, fighting words on the tip of her tongue, but his arm tightened across her, holding her in place.

"Why do you treat me as a child, even as you have seen me fight?"

"A child? Not in the least. Young in age only to me, by all accounts, including my own you are a woman in her own right." Somewhat mollified, she relaxed again, still uncertain if he mocked her. "No, it would be an amazing fight you and I, but in the end I am simply larger and stronger, it is not a weakness of yours, simply a difference. Your enemies misjudge you to their fatal mistake. I would not underestimate you, and I have watched you enough to know your patterns." His hand reached up smoothing the dark brown hair away from her face. "No dear one, you would be a worthy enemy. Which is why—" Feinin sighed, again pulling her close.

"Why? Why what?"

"Which is why I believe you have attracted a far greater enemy." Again, Sarenda made to turn over, but he again, held her in place. "Shhh little one, a few more hours sleep and some food will make this more valuable to you. You haven't even made it a quarter of an evening, sleep now, we'll speak at first light."

Narrowing her eyes at the once again dismissal, she wondered at his suggestions. Wondered at the implications, and wondered whether he might find some solace here as well. Her dreams just eluded her, but she was certain she had dreamt of Nystar and the pain he felt in the final moments. With Feinin here, the pressure of the memories from only hours ago seemed to lessen.

Just as she felt the press of sleep, the low reverberation of his baritone whisper singing stirred her mind. The elven language was so beautiful, so lyrical, but that this warrior had such a voice, remarkable. "What is it you sing?" she asked, her own voice a simple whisper.

"It's a lullaby of sorts.

_Peace little one, may you have peace. For the life of Elune bubbles through into our souls. Let your dreams transcend into perfect solace, let your heart not be touched by the things of darkness_."

"I have not heard you were so talented."

"Many years of practice, many years." He shushed her and continued the song, translating only in his mind the final words as she slipped into what he hoped was a dreamless sleep.

_For by beautiful dark you haunt me_

_ A flower of the Living Tree, entwining my heart in branches_

_ My spirit is lost to you dear one, may it serve you well in your dreams_

_ For beyond this veil of darkness, I lie in wait _

_ Lie in wait of your embrace, your lips, your caress_

_ Until then, may you and I each find peace in the darkness that never seems to end_

_Lullaby indeed._ Feinin thought to himself as peaceful sleep engulfed him.


	9. Chapter 9

In a full camp setting you didn't need anyone assigned to wake you. As the moon began to set, the regular daily duties woke up the campaigners. Anxious to make a good impression on the new Forward General, Squire Tomas rose extra early to deliver fresh bath water and hot breakfast to her tent. With several helpers in tow, they hurried on soft feet through the crowds of troops just beginning the day with yawns. With a perfect plan in place, he came to a full stop when the way to the tent was barred by the grizzled dwarf hunter.

"Aye, what do ye want child?"

"Er, s'cuse us sir, we've brought food and water for the general." He nodded to the boys behind him with buckets.

Harrumphing at the child, neither he nor the cat moved, "Ye can leave it out here, we'll let her sleep a bit longer."

"Um, but sir?" He'd heard there were issues last night, but the old-as-dirt dwarf couldn't expect to excuse a squire TWO days in a row. Could he? Surely not.

"Ski-daddle ye'self bairn." The cat opened one eye with a most unhappy scowl.

"No need Damien, I'm awake." Sarenda stuck her head out the flap.

"Oach, are ye now lass, why din't ye say so?" The dwarf stretched his body as long as it would stretch and stood, his cat following, scowl still twitching along her furry face. "Okay then boys, I guess you can drop in. Did you bring enough breakfast for three?"

Tomas eyed his platter. _Not even close._ "I can have some more brought in a moment sir." Sare waved the entire troop in. He plowed forward buoyed by this almost normalcy, until he caught sight of the blue back and dark blue hair of the night elf. Feinin turned as he pulled his tunic over his head into place.

"Ah breakfast," he took the platter from the speechless squire, "Not quite enough for all of us though."

Not quite breaking into a sweat, Tomas tried to pretend as if finding his new general in bed with a night elf an everyday occurrence. Besides he must present the most upstanding example for the other younger boys. "Sir, I am on my way for more, I was unaware that you and Hunter Spitehawk would be joining General Highweather." Ushering the others around, and stashing the bed of coals under the bath, Tomas took off at a run as soon as his face found fresh air.

Chien and Damien came in to fill the gap left by the gaggle of boys, "Oh dear, I'm afraid poor Tomas is going to have a hard one explaining this." He chuckled heartily, his stomach responding to the smell of the stew. "He'll be thinking the two of you are sharing a shack."

Valuing his life, Feinin chose to keep all comments to himself; even under the narrowed-eyed glare of Sarenda. A soft cherry blossom blush crept up her neck in spite of her best efforts to resist it. Smacking her on the back, "Don't think nothing of it Sare, he won't know how to explain that me and Chien was sleeping out front, that'll kill any story. Keep him quiet simply out of confusion."

"Right. I know these squires Damien; you and I both know the rumors that are flying right…about… now." Sarenda smiled knowing that by the time they reached Tungsten she will have slept with both men and the cat. _Let him wonder_. Dipping a cup in to share the stew Tomas did leave, she passed it to the hunter who grunted appreciatively.

"So Sare, do ye remember last night at all?"

Stopping mid-drink, the mutton just touching her lips, "Up until Feinin showed up? Yes. After that, nothing." Except waking up next to Feinin. Twice.

"Have ye told her anything elf?"

Feinin shook his head, "No, I wanted to wait until at least one other was present to help explain."

"Ah, so you din't want her to think you were off yer rocker?"

"And potentially so she didn't think I was crazy, yes."

"Well missy, we've got a lot more to do today than bury our dead." Damien's stomach continued to growl as he told the story, Feinin piping in to clarify in small bits.

"Then my dream—"

"Aye, it was real."

"Do you remember it little one?" Feinin leaned back casually his leathers stretching a bit too tight for Sera's liking.

"Flashes. I thought them residual from the fight. Certainly we all live with different nightmares." That sobering thought quieted them until Tomas came scurrying in with more food; enough, in fact, for the entire council. But as the rumble in the hunter's stomach had grown, and Sare's had joined it, it seemed exactly enough. She dug into the second bowl of stew, tearing off a large chunk of bread. "And you believe that my dagger dug out whatever poison I'd been infected with?"

Tomas tied open the flaps of the tent, letting in the bright early morning sun. Their view spanned the hilltop over the entire brigade, the tips of the pyre just visible against the brightening sky. They finished their meal in silence, each pondering the events. Sare for the first time, the other two for the hundreth.

She pulled her dagger out. Nothing about it seemed remarkable really, although she valued it, she couldn't remember receiving it. The inscriptions appeared normal, the weight, the materials: all normal. And no deathly glow. "What did I do yesterday in council then?"

Feinin shifted not quite meeting her eyes, "I am not entirely certain. I believe you melded your warrior talents with an unknown magic."

"By the Light," she muttered, then to Damien. "And you say it wouldn't leave me when Moonraven tried to take it out?" The dwarf nodded.

The sounds of the camp rising became louder, breaking their silence. Sare thought it all through: the knife, the putrid infection, the stripe of skin. She thought of Nystar in her dream. She remembered Moonraven's comment about the wounded, _a few are struggling to live, while many are struggling to die_

And then she knew.

Bolting to her feet. "TOMAS! My gear, now!" Pointing at hunter and warrior, "Both of you, to your camps, full gear – prepare for battle! Spread the word, alert the healers, their wounded men might be alive but it's false, they may rise against us." Both men jumped to their feet, startled by the sudden direction, but moving nonetheless. "We fight undead today, and if I'm not mistaken the battle has begun! Now go!"

Like a wisp they were gone, Tomas, young but still battle trained, came to her helping her strap on her armor before they were even alone. Holy Light! She was sore today. As he strapped on her gauntlets the burns on her shield arm screamed, the wrist becoming bloody. "No Tomas, an extra leather first. I'll go without shield, bring me Deathmark." His eyes widened, but his curt nod and turn told her he heard. She finished her own leather wrap, pulling taut the straps on her gauntlets. Sparing a small grin as the poor child struggled with the two handed axe, she reached over his shoulder, hefting it in a single hand. The weight fueled her warrior's anticipation, the grin turned to a fleeting, maddened smile.

"Tomas, listen to me, this is your most important task of your life," he nodded again. She watched resolve steal itself regardless of the fear in his eyes. "You must alert the others. Be specific in orders to each: Tungsten mount up full heavy cavalry, head to the pits, they will raise warriors there. Smithhammer, full resources to the side pit. Shaelyn – to the hill beside the pyre, she must deploy immediately. Oralin, send him to middle ground; tell him to adjust as he sees necessary." A scream from the basin below underscored the urgency. "Now run child, I shall find the Kirin Tor and attend the healers. Do not stop for anyone, any man or any request, do you hear me?" He nodded and turned running for his life, and hers.

She let out a shrill whistle as she slid her gloves and helmet into place. Her charger appeared at the entrance, breath snorting in the cool air. Adjusting her gun, and hefting Deathmark to her shoulder, she glanced down at the dagger shining on the table and without a moment's hesitation she slid it home in its sheath.

Time to fight.


	10. Chapter 10

Her charger made enough noise as she rode through camp, her battle cry rising any troops that still rested, organizing those confused by the fringe chaos. "To arms! For Lordaeron! For the Alliance!" The sight of their general in full gear, at full charge, moved the men in a way that no message or squire ever would. Her regal aura engulfing all, inciting all it touched, even as her tabard flapped in the wind with her rapid passing. "Today we fight undead! The Scourge! They rise! We must put them down!" Over and over again, her heralded call rang to her troops. A falcon landed on her shoulder, bring her ride to pause. "Moonraven."

Dropping to the side, the night elf shifted to full form. "General HIghweather. You are well?"

"As well as can be expected for the moment. The infection, it is plague of its own. Unclean. Our men, alive or dead, will rise against us." She cut him off in mid-question, "To the healery, dispatch any that you can spare to Tungsten and Smithhammer, they forge ahead to the pits. Otherwise, fill in the ranks here, do what you can, I give you charge!" And in that instant he was back to flight form and gone to organize his ranks.

The sounds of battle erupted from both the pit and hospital. With the confidence of a commander, she headed for the wounded. Shaeyln would not let her down, nor from the sound of pounding hooves, would Tungsten.

She heard Lysind before she saw her. The mage's fire balls drawing attention to the scourge that crawled from the ground in front of her. They didn't look the same as the evil vermin they'd fought many times in Azeroth, but they sure acted the same. Letting lose her battle cry, Sarenda charged in swinging her mighty axe in one hand to cleave the head of the undead. Trampling those that she caught in their ascent from the ground.

"Mage, I need a line. Paladins to send up their Holy buffs, you directly behind them letting everything lose that you have. I'll herald Oralin's paladins as well. These are not our kin today, these are the enemy." Rearing up with her intensity, her stallion lifted his forefeet, calling to his brethren pounding away towards battle. "We must push ahead them back to the pit." Thanking both the Light and Elune that their field hospital remained near the pit and pyre, she called ahead to her troops.

"To Death! The scourge have tricked us, we must move quickly."

Her priest lieutenant plowed through to her. "General, we must pause and regroup." Merilyn clung to her treads, "You must stop, these are our people!"

"Stand down priest, we do this to save this world and our own."

"NO! You are just like Arthas, burning Stratholme. Do not over react!"

If the priest had swung an epic two handed sword at her in a full hit, it couldn't have done more damage. Sarenda's confidence faltered. _Oh gods? Could this be what Arthas faced? Could she be laying siege to her own people unwarranted. Just as he had. Just as he had been tainted with Frostmourne, was she tainted by—_A gasp caught in her throat and as her pace slowed to a full stop with the priest's words, Meri begged her, "Please call off the warriors, I swear, this is how the paladins burned our home!" Sarenda studied the holy woman carefully.

The roar of an undead behind them stunned the priest, startling Sarenda's horse. As her charger shifted, she pulled Meri with her, until the priest landed on her knees. In the next instance, Deathmark swung down cleaving the head off of ghoul behind. Sarenda slid off her horse, lifting Meri, "This is not Stratholme and each moment we wait, is a moment of men lost. Are you with me?" She shook the priest slightly, "Please, you are my only family. Cousin, I must know. Are you with me?"

Shaking off the grime and fear, Meri stared at her feet. "I can't do this again, Sare, I can't. I couldn't stop him or his Paladins, they burned our town and our people, he burned what was left of our families." Chaos reigned around them. The mages of the Kirin Tor, lining up for battle, cries of valor and victory mixed with the roar of defeat and challenge.

"I must Meri. I love you. Please find somewhere safe, I cannot protect you in this melee. I believe. I believe I'm doing the right thing. You must find it in your heart to forgive me if I am right, or even if I am wrong." She embraced her in a one arm hug, kissing her cheek and then touching her face before turning with her battle cry. "FOR LORDAERON! FOR THE ALLIANCE!" Cheers went up around her, and Sarenda plowed through the ranks to reengage in battle, her stallion long gone to trample the enemy, leaving behind the wilting priest and calling once again for her charger.


	11. Chapter 11

No clouds softened the battle; and soon Sare slid from her horse swinging her axe in rhymthic time. Slower than her beloved sword; Deathmark's blacksmith named it well. She slaughtered undead after undead, minion after minion. Some resembled humans, some orcs; the necromancy here ignored prejudice and pulled all from the ground. But after swinging through the ranks of unorganized pawns, she felt a shift in their enemy. A pause. They held back, stood their ground and regrouped. When their ranks separated and the giant skeletal horse poured through, it left no doubt the source of their leadership. Three mounted undead lined up behind their general, fanning to the sides. The battle lulled into that sense of imminent violence, broken only by cries of the wounded.

Sarendra whistled again for her ride, swinging up as soon as his hooves pounded the dust beside her. A few side skirmishes echoed, but both sides stood motionless, the shifting of armor filling the space. Oralin mounted up beside her, "By the Light of Naaru, what are they doing?" he whispered to her. She shook her head, pushing to the lead, mimicking them.

"Do you cede?" She called taunting the rider. The bulk shifted and turned its full attention to her; as if it finally found its focus.

"Youngling, you die today!" The voice of her dream taunted her back.

"Perhaps, but I die when you die!" Cheers rose up from her troops; Lysind walked up beside her horse.

"Careful warrior." She cautioned under her breath, the memory of yesterday's magical treaty fresh in her mind.

The dark leader shifted on his horse, standing in his stirrups. "Behold your mighty leader mortals!" He took off his helmet. And as one the ranks gasped and stepped back. Before them rode their beloved General Nystar. "Behold what your General Highweather has created!" The crowds shifted, unease growing. "She, that creature of yours, brought us here! She carries a blade of damnation!"

She felt her wary troops ebb in a way that it could turn against her. Not only did their loyalty to Nystar, the great Lion go deep, but her people,the people of Lordareon knew the damage of their prince's enchanted blade. And the cost of that betrayal. She looked down into the eyes of the warriors closest. The troops took an unintentional step back from Sare, she felt it more than saw it, the doubt in their minds. Their eyes on her axe. She did the only thing she could do.

She laughed.

Full belly, shaking. The sound of her mirth confused but settled her men. "Hark, dark warrior! Stealer of Nystar's skin, stealer of Nystar's soul! You have a remarkable sense of humor for an undead. For a demon." The crowd moved by her rallying words, didn't head the temptation to take back their step forward, did not yet take that leap of faith. She ignored the enemy and turned to her men. Her. Men.

"Warriors of Azeroth, do you believe him, this man who carries the face of one we love?" Murmurs rippled through the crowd like a rock skipping across a still lake, "We have been tricked before, our own prince fallen to such things." The unrest grew at the mention of Arthas. No one spoke of Arthas. "But be warned, it is not Deathmark he is worried about!" She swung her two-handed bloodied axe over her head once, with a little more showmanship than threat. Those closest cleared space, until she abruptly stopped the swing, handing it to Oralin, the draenai slouching under the heft. "NO! He worries about this!" Whipping out the dagger, she held it high. Dull in the sun, it looked a toothpick to the Living Tree. A snicker filled the air next to her. "Behold the might of the little blade!" She swished mocking parries at the air in front of her. Sarenda knew she was winning when even the stonefaced mage standing beside her couldn't suppress her chuckled. Her warriors once again were hers.

Nystar stood too in his saddle, passing a very convincing look of condemnation across the field. "Very well human. To die at my hands is an honor."

"You are not worthy of my little blade!" She yelled back. "You. Are. Not. Worthy!" Punctuating each word with a stab of her knife.

Sheathing the dagger as Oralin happily handed her axe back, she lifted her voice high into the sky, "For Lordaeron! For Azeroth!" As her call rolled over her men, she dropped her seat into the saddle, kneeing her charger forward. Her confidence never waivering, even in the face of her cousin's concern. But before she could reach the dark warrior, her route closed by his minions, one of his lieutenants cutting off her route. Axe to sword they clashed with the sound of ringing metal, screams of battle cries lifting around them. Their melee breaking the lull. Stroke for stroke they met, until she slid off from an attacker's quicker shield slam.

Being on her feet only sped her attack, her horse rearing and fighting with his flailing hooves only a hairsbreadth away, the heavy smell of sweaty horse mingling with the ichor of undeath. She punched forward, slamming the undead warrior back, swinging around in a whirl just as he yanked his shield up; his own sword glancing off her pauldrons.

"Die." The automated voice of her enemy slithered from his helmet, as another quick paced shield bounced her backwards. It took her breath almost a moment too soon, when her instincts brought Deathmark up to parry. Bright light covered her, rejuvenating her. Protecting her. _Cousin_. She'd know the healing touch of Meri anywhere. Buoyed by this truth, she reengaged in full fury, beating the creature back until she managed to disarm and field him. She swung her mighty axe up, and as she came down, his helmet melted away to reveal _Gert!_ She didn't falter, but the damage to her mind was done. _Beloved Gert._ The head that rolled away resembled her friend in every way. She watched unable to move, entrenched on the spot. The whistle of sword barely registered before the clang of another intercepting it.

"General? Sare?" Beatrees called to her. "SARE!" Another sword came to the side of Sare's arm, glancing off breastplate, but knocking her to her knees. The paladin called forth a burst of Light, bubbling her, stopping the offending minion in his attack. The dwarf stooped beside her, "Git up! Are ye hurt general?" She swung her axe around to stop another attack that came from behind.

_Sarenda Highweather, stand and take your calling._ _Gert is no longer, what remains is not your friend._

Throwing her head back in agony, a high pitched scream emanated from the small human warrior. Minions paused, some turned and fled from the wail. Beatrees again yanked on her arm, until following her gaze to see the gentle dwarven face of their comrade challenging them from the bodyless head. "By the Light woman, git up."

Sare fought the pain, the reality of her next chore. It wasn't just that she had killed Gert but, looking up and ahead, she must kill Nystar. Another piercing cry scrambled the line in front of her, but seeing her rise to her feet rallied the troops around them.

_Today you fight real evil. Stand tall human, root yourself in the Light, root yourself in your companions. Root yourself In the TRUTH!_

The voice rang clearly, and she could feel the vibration from her dagger humming at her side. The time wasn't right, but she knew it soon would be. Mustering her resolve, "FOR LORDAERON!" A wave of life rang through the ranks, the roar increasing among them when she swung back to saddle. "DARK WARRIOR! I claim you!" Her words turning the tide of battle toward her. His mighty sword swung, claiming the lives of her people. But no more. "Come!" Whipping her axe in a mighty circle at the side, she pointed it forward, "FOR THE ALLIANCE!"

The beastial roar that the dark warrior let out parted the field in front of him. Letting his own undead charger have his full reigns ahead of him, they set out full tilt to meet her. Feeling naked with out her shield, she waited until the last minute, standing stirrup to saddle, then just as she had done a hundred times as a child, she flipped off sideways. This time though, she released Deathmark through the air with a mighty two-handed throw, not aimed at the warrior, rather his steed, which crumpled as the axe sliced tendon and rotting muscle across the back flank.

The dark warrior fell and Sare heard the cries of victory from her troops. But she knew the truth.

The battle had only just begun.


End file.
